


Blue-Eyed Angel

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-06
Updated: 2007-06-06
Packaged: 2019-01-19 17:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12415038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Thirteen years after the Dark Lord was vanquished, Draco Malfoy is out of Azkaban, wandless, practically destitute and physically afflicted from his trespasses against Voldemort. Who should chance by and save this shell of a man from the ice he has become, but a fiery redhead from his dark past.





	Blue-Eyed Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Summary:**

**Thirteen years after the Dark Lord was vanquished, Draco Malfoy is out of Azkaban, wandless, practically destitute and physically afflicted from his trespasses against Voldemort. Who should chance by and save this shell of a man from the ice he has become, but a fiery redhead from his dark past.**

**Teaser:**  

**Draco has a rare gift and an all too common disease, Ginny has an irritating boyfriend and a desire to rebel. What can they expect from each other and who will end up surprising the other more?**

**Disclaimer:**

**I do not own the Harry Potter franchise or any character that originates from it.**

**\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Blue-Eyed Angel**

**_Chapter One_ **

The days of Lord Voldemort were long past, though anything but forgotten. The scars left behind all across the wizarding world from the battles were kept as reminders of once dark times and a promise for brighter future. In Diagon Alley, though the people hustled and bustled along in their own affairs, they could not help but glance at the ravaged buildings that stood as tribute and testament to those who had fought bravely, and died young, those many years before…all in the name of good and right.

The now incredibly famous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the young wizard who had single-handedly defeated the Dark Lord at seventeen-years-old, was held in such high esteem that he was comparable to that of a living deity on earth. A sort of divine being of great power, wealth, and prestige to be admired, hailed, honored, and even worshipped as he strutted about in his daily business.

Potter’s constant companions, the other two of the Three Musketeers, the fearless and virtuous Gryffindors, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, were of course no less hailed and respected. Their aid in the downfall of the Dark Lord was recorded in the history books, documented in the Hall of Records in the Ministry of Magic, and they too were honored. Like Harry, they were recipients of the Order of Merlin, First Class, for their service and sacrifice in their stand against evil at the risk of their own lives in those dark days when they were oh-so-young.

Diagon Alley was crowded. It was the start of December and witches and wizards were out, bundled up in their warm cloaks and scarves, boots and pointy hats, all on their merry way, buying gifts for their loved ones on a cold night.

Lights of sparkling fairies glittered in the windows of shops, festive decorations sang carols as people passed by, snow powdered the eaves and it was trampled firmly underfoot. The sky was black, the stars were out, and the sounds of so many happy people filled the crooked and narrow street, giving off an aura of contentment and slight urgency. A very important anniversary was near at hand. Not just the birth of Christ, but the death of an _evil_ wizard.

Nearly thirteen years had passed since the Dark Lord had been overthrown, killed, destroyed, obliterated. Twelve years had passed since the now infamous Death Eater Trials had come to an end. Eleven years had passed since Hogwarts was officially reopened with Head Mistress McGonagall, and in the ten years since, the witches and wizards of Europe had lived in safety and with peace of mind. 

Ding-dong, the wicked…wizard…was dead! The celebrations had lasted months. 

Despite the time that had passed, Harry Potter still could not walk down the street without looks, without stares, without whispers, and without proclamations of gratitude.

It was something he had long ago come to terms with. Whether as a boy known as the _Boy-Who-Lived_ , or a young man dubbed _The Chosen One_ , or now as a man and _The Great Hero_ …he had always been forced to endure the gawkers, the celebrity-crazed fans, the obsessed admirers, and the resentful people who had lost _everything_ because of him.

Wrapped up warmly in his expensive yet tasteful black cloak and scarf of his prideful Gryffindor colors, Harry Potter moved through Diagon Alley amidst the snow and shoppers. He enjoyed the winter, and the cold, for the excuse to be covered and not look conspicuous. Polyjuice Potion was all well and nice when he wanted to get out for an hour or two in peace, but he could barely stomach the concoction, and to take on another’s appearance seemed cowardly. He had done nothing wrong, why hide?

He had his mother’s beautiful green eyes, his father’s striking face and unruly yet thick dark hair. He was six feet tall, slender but strongly built, now that he was a man. He was thirty years old and handsome. He should not have to hide himself like the Elephant Man.

Yet he did. 

Few would recognize him just in passing, but if one were to give him a solid look, recognition would streak across his or her face and Harry would continue on without a word, in hopes of being lost in the crowd before the news of his presence spread. With his hat pulled down to cover his hair and his famous scar, if no one looked right at his face, little commotion would follow in his wake, but not tonight.

“It’s Harry Potter!” the eager whisper drifting from some feet past met his ears. Harry felt himself cringe at the thought of a small number of people’s excited realization would become a scene of mass hysteria, all wishing to personally meet and thank the Great Harry Potter so close to the anniversary of his triumph over the Dark Lord. 

He _hated_ winter too, and that anniversary was the reason why.

Not taking a moment to consider his next action, Harry ducked into the closest building. He did not want to trap himself somewhere there was no back exit, and Apparating out of the scene would be terribly careless and rude, but he could not stay on the street.

Entering the very dark pub Harry pulled the collar of his cloak upright so that it blocked a good portion of this face from view, his hat’s brim wide and sloping, hid the rest while his head was tilted down slightly.

“Oi, I’ll be right with you, sir,” came a woman’s voice, seeing Harry out of the corner of her eye as she tended to a recently emptied table. Clearly not having been recognized, Harry was able to relax slightly, thankful for the break in the otherwise constant tightness in his gut when he was out.

Harry Potter took a seat near the back, but not in the corner. Not only was that table occupied, it would make it harder to get away should he find it necessary. From the back, but more to the right, not too far from the bar, Harry could see all the way across the poorly lit pub to the front door. The windows were frosted over so that the people on the street were just distant shadows on the other side of the glass. Harry could see over the heads of everyone in the place, people minding their own drinks and their own company. To his left, very near to the bar, there was a door, a door that led out to the back. It was a last resort of course to flee, but it was something that was always on Harry’s mind when he went out. It had become a part of his life, so much so that it was normal and he did not dwell on the fact that he could not stroll the streets anymore. 

He was a celebrity. He had to deal with all that came with fame.

_No good deed goes unpunished._

Harry knew those words. The moment they crossed his mind his stomach contracted like someone had hit him with a Slug-Vomiting Charm right in the gut. Those words had not been his originally, and he had not just thought of them now on accident. He had an inexplicable compulsion to look to his right, to the table in the corner, and stare.

A man sat alone with his back to Harry, but he seemed to be aware of Harry’s perturbed stare and turned slowly in his seat to look right back at him. Turning however revealed he was not alone at all, but in fact accompanied by another, someone who had been blocked from view while he sat so hunched and small in the corner, hands in his lap, eyes on his untouched drink, and the look on his face obvious melancholy.

Draco Malfoy slowly raised his hooded silver eyes from his drink, tilting his lowered head just a fraction of an inch, to lock eyes with Harry Potter around the man that had turned to reveal him. 

His appearance was thin, undernourished even. His skin, once as fair and rich as cream, was now pale as milk and the dark circles under his eyes gave away that he lacked sleep and sunlight. His hair, once platinum blond and shining, at some point had just become white and it now hung very long and straight, half covering his face, smooth yet slightly tangled looking as it fell out of site, past waist. His pointed face would have been striking in its attractiveness, if it weren’t for his eyes. Stunning they were, but the haunted weight they carried was enough to send chills and distract from their utter rarity and beauty.

The two men held the contest for a few long heartbeats, but then Harry’s attention was ripped away, leaving him startled. The waitress who had greeted Harry upon arrival was now standing beside him. She had spoken to him and his startled reaction had in turn made her jump.

“Oi, I’m sorry, Mister. I did not mean to startle you,” she said, her right hand over her heart as she smiled, easing herself down as Harry relaxed, his eyes a little too wide behind his glasses, and his hand easing away from his wand under the table.

“Oh, I am sorry. I was just distracted,” he said, apologizing and nodding.

“What can I get ‘cha?” she asked, her youthful manner and speech charming, her body attractive. It was her utter obliviousness to Harry’s fame that he found the most attractive of all at that moment.

“Just a Butterbeer to warm up, please,” he said, flashing a perfect smile.

“Right away, sir,” she said with a grin, scooping up the coins Harry offered her before rushing off.

Harry watched her go, fully aware that though she was clearly an adult, she was far too young for him, still taking the opportunity to ogle a little bum. 

“Eyeing your young fans, Potter? Tisk-tisk. Disgraceful, that is,” came a male voice drifting over to Harry from the corner. Harry looked over with angry eyes to see Blaise Zabini turned in his chair so that his left arm was resting on the back of it (right arm likely free in case he needed to go for his wand) glaring over at Harry, looking both patronizing and self-assured. Draco sat at the table too, but he was silent and remained still, just as Harry had seen him moments before, only his eyes were back on his drink set before him. His shoulders were rolled so far forward it seemed as though he was trying to shrink down into himself.

“Zabini,” Harry said, voice calm despite the rage he felt bubbling deep within him, “you are out of Azkaban, I see,” he said this calmly, making a civil conversation of it rather than exchanging insults. He would let the Death Eater be petty and insulting. It would only make him look like the bigger person in the end to ignore it.

“Been out for a few days now. It didn’t make the newspapers though. I guess no one wants to ruin everyone’s perfect day by revealing that a _dangerous Death Eater_ made probation after a decade served in that _hellhole_ ,” he said, being just as civil now but unable to speak without baring his teeth slightly. His appearance too was disheveled and worn. Stretched thin, waxy dark skin, and haunted. Azkaban did that to people.

“How is life on the outside treating you?” he asked, honestly not caring how the filthy son of a Muggle killer and Death Eater was doing.

“Well, the home welcoming was not exactly warm, but the Ministry has assigned me work. Standard procedure, so I hear for all probations from Azkaban,” he said flatly.

“So as to keep a careful eye on you,” Harry said. He was well aware of the mandate that stated that all released from Azkaban via probation would work for the Ministry of Magic until their probation was through. It had been proposed as a means of “reaching out” to the repentant-through-prosecution, to help them “reestablish” their lives once out of prison. Probation was meant to reintroduce them, and to help them adjust to life…but Harry knew the truth. The Ministry did not trust the Death Eaters, and rightfully so in Harry’s opinion, and those they had been unable to sentence to death, and could not legally lock up for a lifetime, they had to find a means of dealing with. There was a whole generation of witches and wizards in Azkaban that had wound up in there because of their families. Those who had killed no one, had no evidence of having used an Unforgivable, yet had maintained their allegiance to their families while proclaiming their innocence.

Now a little more than a decade later, they were all reaching their probation and slowly, one by one, they were being let out.

Two now sat before him, and neither looked very happy to see him.

“Yes. Well, working for the Ministry,” Zabini began, “even as a lackey in some dark hellish cellar of that disgrace to the name ‘bureaucracy’ isn’t _too_ bad,” he said, eyes harsh as ever, tone quickly slipping to show the same.

Harry felt outrage at the insult to his Ministry.

“Watch your mouth, Zabini,” Harry warned. 

The pub was quiet now, all eyes turned to the quarrel. All eyes _but_ Draco Malfoy’s that is. He seemed oblivious to the scene except for the tightness in his shoulders.

“I don’t recall you always being so chummy with the Ministry,” Zabini accused. “Oh, that’s right; The Great Harry Potter is now a firm supporter of the corrupt Ministry. They give you a medal or two, an award or three, a nice cushy job, some more fame, and you suddenly absolve and love them?”

“Do not _dare_ imply that my values and loyalties can be bought for any price, Zabini. I worked for _years_ to clean up the Ministry and set things right,” Harry said fiercely before his voice died in his throat, Malfoy looking back up at him with his scorned eyes. Harry regretted his choice of wording now.

“Made everything better didn’t you, Potter? Have to save the world every damn day don’t you? Defeat the big baddy, reform the government, hand out recognition and awards, _pardon_ those who _deserve_ it…bang up job you did too,” he mocked as Harry stood suddenly, Zabini doing the same, both itching for an excuse now to draw their wands.

“Mister Potter, please, no!” the young waitress implored, near the table but not daring to come near enough to touch him, only reaching out to him.

“You have something you would like to say to my face, Death Eater?” Harry spat. “Say it to my face, say it.”

“Turn around and drop your trousers and I will,” Zabini came back with an insult, Harry’s face burning with suppressed anger.

“Let’s step outside then,” Harry proposed, making it clear his intentions without having touched his wand yet.

“Ladies first, _Potter_ ,” Zabini said harshly, holding his hands out as though offering the door to Harry.

Harry Potter defiantly turned his back on the Death Eaters and stepped out the back door, no one stopping him despite the sign that read “employees only” hanging from it. Zabini followed and a few seemed to want to stop him, but with Draco Malfoy bringing up the rear, his cold stare chasing back any courage the people in the pub had been gathering, they were allowed to disappear through the door unchallenged, leaving a buzz of gossip and wonderment in their wake.

“You want to start something, Zabini, just out of Azkaban?” Harry demanded, turning on Zabini once the door closed, locking them in a nearly closed off square yard, showing great self control having not drawn his wand at that point, in his opinion. Trash bins had been stacked against one stone wall, the other side being a tall wooden fence. The snow was thicker back there without the heavy foot traffic having packed it down and an extremely narrow alleyway was the only noticeable exit, leading to the busy street between the two old and squat buildings.

“You feel I have wronged you, Zabini?” Harry demanded.

“Me and how many others?” Zabini replied.

“Let them speak then,” Harry said, clearly implicating Draco then and glancing over at him.

“You honestly feel you are faultless?” Zabini snapped, while Draco stood with his back to the door, watching the scene with crossed arms.

“I’m not perfect, but I did everything in my power to…” Harry faltered.

“You think I am intimidated by you, Potter?” Zabini questioned.

“There any reason you shouldn’t be?” Harry spat. He was not full of himself, but he was extremely world worn and confident.

“Oh, I know it is folly to mess with you, the Ministry’s darling,” Zabini scoffed.

“I am no one’s _darling_ and I have earned my reputation. I brought down the Dark Lord at seventeen, that alone is evidence to the fact that I can handle myself,” Harry stated calmly.

“Still holding to that are you? Still reveling in your own grandeur? Tell me, do you recite you accomplishments to yourself every night before you sleep?” 

“You calling me conceited?” Harry asked.

“Still pretending that you took down the Dark Lord all by yourself? That you stood up to him like a man and fought him one on one?” Zabini accused. “That he fell at your feet as you held your wand high like a bloodied sword after a fierce battle, to the applause of all those who witnessed your moment of triumph?” he spat, disgust apparent and obvious in his face.

“I have given apt credit. I never said I took down the most feared wizard of our time alone. Medals and awards were handed out, libraries were named after…” Harry continued.

“Oh, you can wipe that ‘my shit doesn’t stink’ attitude away right now, Potter!” Zabini suddenly shouted. He seemed to make a move for his jacket’s inner breast pocket and Harry had his wand drawn but not yet pointed. He did not even realize he had gone for his wand until it was in his hand.

“You want to end up back in Azkaban, Zabini? One word from me, with all those witnesses in there,” Harry said, indicating the pub, “and I can have your probation revoked and you can finish up the last of your term behind bars,” he said. 

Draco Malfoy, who had been silent and unmoving through the whole confrontation so far, looked over at Harry with angry eyes, his waist-length hair still hanging limply around him like a partially opened curtain, his dark robes faded from age, mended with care but disheveled in appearance. His Muggle jeans were torn at the knees and his heavily treaded boots scuffed and worn. Harry looked away, not able to look at Draco, knowing exactly what Draco was thinking right then.

Zabini suddenly made a move as if to stupidly go for his wand, and Harry’s attention snapped back to the other wizard, jumping into action, defending himself. 

Before Zabini could even draw and point his wand Harry sent a silent hex towards him, hitting him with a spell that seemed to punch him in the face, blood erupting from his nose as his head shot back in a snap.

While Zabini’s eyes watered and his left hand shot up to his face to shield his now broken nose Harry used that opportunity to try and disarm him.

_“Expelliarmus!"_ he shouted out loud even though that was not necessary anymore. 

Nothing happened. 

Harry glanced at his wand and back over to Zabini again to see Draco Malfoy tending to him, leaning Zabini’s head back and directing him to pinch the bridge of his nose in hopes of slowing the bleeding.

“We do not have wands, Potter,” Malfoy said, sounding angry while looking over at him, hands still on Zabini’s shoulders, steadying him. “The Ministry snapped them in half more than thirteen years ago and we are forbidden to replace them. You _know_ that,” he said.

Harry felt sick.He _did_ know that. 

What had he been thinking when he had attacked…defended himself…from Zabini? Did he honestly forget that he had been a part of the team that had set in place the laws to prevent the Death Eaters from ever having wands again? Did he really think that Zabini had actually found someone that would sell him a wand?

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Harry asked, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, his guilt over a great many things magnified with the other man standing there.

“Having a drink with an old friend,” he said simply, looking back at Zabini as he fell to the snow, pulling his knees up so he could rest his elbows on them, trying to sniff back the blood that was oozing down his dark face.

“I’m sorry for this. I did not mean for…” he said, pausing and dropping his intended words to opt for different ones. “I will make this better,” he said, looking at the two men. They were two men that had nothing. No money, no wands, no respect, no lives. He had attacked an unarmed wizard. Not even a wizard really, but just a man. 

“Haven’t you done enough already?” Draco asked softly, looking at Harry with eyes so full of bitter resentment that Harry felt sick. Malfoy was not saying that what Harry had done since the war was good; he was not thanking Harry for things he had done; he was not blindly worshiping Harry like the rest of the wizarding world was.

He was reminding Harry of his darkest secret, the thing that brought Harry so much shame and guilt and the reason behind why seeing Draco in the pub so unexpectedly had unnerved him so. 

He was reminding him of the one thing he had failed to set right, and the one life he had been unable to save as a result of it.

Harry looked right at the man he had failed so terribly more than thirteen years before and could not hold his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he offered for the hundredth time as Draco stood Zabini up and turned him so that they were heading towards the narrow alley.

“For yourself maybe,” he said bitterly before turning away with still angry eyes and leading Zabini out of the fenced and walled in yard, leaving Harry Potter to stand there, miserable and shamed in all his grandeur.

\---------------------

Draco Malfoy silently slinked into the Ministry of Magic’s headquarters in London through the street entrance. He could not Apparate into the hall because he had no wand, he was forbidden to use the Floo Network even if his home was connected to it, and there was no one willing to allow him to Side-Along with him when they Apparated there.

Dialing the number after standing in the decrepit red phone booth just off the Muggle street, Draco waited patiently as his familiar ride down into the bowels of the Ministry began. The sun had not yet broken the horizon at that point, it was hardly dawn and the stars could still be seen. It was a terrible time to be awake, yet there he was, slowly descending at quarter past five, on his way to work.

The booth opened up to spill him out into the main hall of the Ministry, with magnificent mahogany-paneled walls and highly polished dark wood floors. The peacock-blue high ceiling gleamed with inlaid symbols that continually changed. He had entered into the Atrium where Apparating wizards appeared slowly here and there, a few emerging from the fireplaces along the left wall by Floo. It was early, and though there were a few coming in, Draco was missing the morning rush. That was why he was up at such a God-awful hour. 

His hood pulled up over his head so that his face was shadowed, his hair tucked down the back of his cloak so as not to give him away, he made his way past the witch at the front desk. The fountain that had previously stood as the showpiece in the Grand Hall had been replaced some years before, due to all the damage it had sustained during the many battles in that final war. 

Once occupied by statues of a golden wizard, a house-elf, a witch, goblin, and a centaur, now it was a glamorized depiction of the Great Harry Potter besting the Dark Lord who was crumpled face down at Harry’s feet while partially submerged in the water. Harry’s foot rested atop him, a silver shield of armor on his chest, his hair blown back from his face to make his scar focal, and his wand arm held high in triumph. Water shot up in a jet behind Harry’s likeness, giving a dramatic backdrop for the centerpiece, or just maintaining that it was _supposed_ to be a fountain. Draco raised his shaded eyes scornfully to the statue as he passed it, hating that piece of “art” more than just about _anything_ he had ever hated in his life.

The Desk Witch in her peacock-blue Ministry robes did not look up or acknowledge Draco as he passed and made his way through the golden gates, but she did greet the two wizards that passed a few moments later, flashing a smile and happy wishes for a good day.

Draco slipped into one of the still empty Ministry lifts and rode it down as far as it would go. No one hopped on or interrupted his ride. It was too early for that. The Atrium was on the eighth level. His descent into the Ministry of Magic from the street had already taken him more than halfway towards his destination. While most witches and wizards took lifts _up_ from the Atrium to reach their offices in levels two through seven (level one being where the Minister worked, few having the clearance to warrant such a visit,) Draco needed to go down, down past the _Department of Mysteries_ on level nine where the Unspeakables worked, and down past the courtrooms on level ten which could only be reached by stairs. 

It was like some cruel joke that he would have to pass those dreaded courtrooms every day. The Ministry was not without its sick sense of irony.

The lift stopped with a slightly unsettling screech of brakes and the golden caged doors opened onto a landing. Draco did not look around but immediately started walking. Torches provided dim light, making it seem even more like night, and he proceeded alone and silent for a long time. Eventually he passed a person on his way down, a wizard coming from the direction Draco was heading, probably from one of the courtrooms. Malfoy paused and pressed his back to the wall with his head down and in shadow of his hood to let him pass. Though the hallway was wide and roomy, he still moved aside for the wizard. Daring only an angry glance at the wizard’s back, Draco was on his way again. 

He took a long flight of stone stairs down, then another. It was growing increasingly damp the further down he went. By the time he was past the third set of poorly carved stairs there were actual streams, trickles, running down the walls. There were no longer hallways of wood and stone; it was like a tunnel in the bare earth. 

The torches were fewer and farther between at that point, but his feet knew their way. He knew to skip over the cold puddle that pooled in a dark section of the hallway that was so much deeper than it ought to be, and he avoided some of the toppled rocks that had freed themselves from the clay walls.

With a groan of heavy old wood on rusted hinges, Draco pushed open the door on the right of the hallway. Inside was a room that seemed too large, tall, and deep for it to be called a “room” at all. The place was a cave, but carved out and squared off. The ceiling disappeared into shadow, bookshelves just as high stood in long rows. There was a pair of desks directly in front of him, sitting face to face, sharing a singular desk lamp with a green-glass lampshade. Paperwork was stacked impossibly high, old brittle quills littered the area, crumpled parchment was scattered in the general vicinity of the bin, and books lay battered and sad while waiting to be repaired or placed back onto their shelves.

The whole room smelled of parchment, earth, dampness, and of darkness. The darkness had a smell, a smell that was kind of like mold, but a little colder.

“Draco, my boy,” a man called, coming from behind a line of tall bookshelves to greet him. 

“Good morning, Mr. Coderdale,” Draco said softly, walking further into the room. “You are here awfully early,” he commented, taking off his cloak at his desk and laying it across the back of his chair to reveal the same, tight, torn jeans and zip-up black hoodie that had seen better days. The elbows were worn out and patched with a very contrasting red and the front pocket was tearing off.

“Well, I could say the same about you, but you are actually running a little later than usual,” he noted while snapping a book closed with his one hand, drawing his very round glasses away from his very elderly face with the other.

Mr. Coderdale was so ancient looking it seemed to defy reason that he was still alive, let alone moving around and climbing up and down ladders like he did. His long beard and bushy eyebrows were snow-white and wispy, his head otherwise bald. His age spots looked like ink blotches on wrinkled parchment. His hands were long and thin, his body perpetually hunched from too many years spent nose-deep in books, and his walk was a bit of a limp, but he never let his age get him down. His deep grey robes billowed out around his feet as he walked, arms extended with glasses in one hand, the book in the other, seemingly offering a hug but really just being very welcoming.

He was a kind old man.

“Late for me, but still early on the clock,” Draco said, smiling slightly.

“Of course. How was your evening?” Mr. Coderdale asked, dropping his book on his desk causing a small flurry of papers to rise up before settling.

“Lackluster,” Draco said simply, pulling his chair out from his desk and flopping into his seat to now be shorter than his inbox. He really hated being shorter than his inbox.

“You get in fights with Harry Potter so often that it has become tedious, Malfoy?” he asked, a wise smile creeping across his face as he peered at Draco from over his mess of paperwork and books, placing his glasses back on his face slowly.

“You heard that did you?” he asked, a little surprised. Though he had guessed news would spread quickly enough that he had been seen in the company of Harry Potter and harsh words had been exchanged, it was barely eight _hours_ after the fact and already Claudius Coderdale of the Ministry’s Hall of Records knew about it.

Knowing that, Draco had little hope of having a decent week at that point.

“Well, I heard that there was a scuffle in a pub involving you, Mr. Potter, and another Death Eater.”

“ _Another_ Death Eater, implying that I was the first,” Draco retorted darkly.

“Draco, I know you are no Death Eater, but you spent ten _years_ in Azkaban. Your trial was published all over the _Daily Prophet_ and every other publication. I mean, _The Quibbler_ was even reporting that you were a Death Eater for Merlin’s sake, but only because a _Wrackspurt_ nested in your ears and caused momentary madness,” he said and Draco managed to snort a laugh as Coderdale chuckled. “It is not outlandish to think that people will assume you’re a ‘vicious, Dark Arts peddling, loyal Death Eater’ to the now past Dark Lord and that you vowed vengeance on Harry Potter, the man that took everything from you, when you were in a harsh exchange of words with him so close to the anniversary of the end of the war,” he said

“Who’s to say that I didn’t vow vengeance on said Mr. Potter?” Draco grumbled, not feeling terribly vengeful at the moment, just really tired actually.

“Well, people still _believe_ that you cursed Potter during that scene you made at the end of your trial…bad luck following him for years after,” Mr. Coderdale trailed off.

“Potter doesn’t though, so there’s no point in playing advantage to that rumor.” Draco pouted, wishing Harry Potter really _did_ believe he had cursed him. He’d rather be feared than pitied.

“What happened last night, Draco?” Coderdale pressed much more sympathetically than before.

“Nothing,” he said, grabbing the top file and pulling it down to his desk, opening it with a focused determination to ignore Coderdale.

Coderdale looked down at Draco for a long moment and Draco knew he was being looked at, but he refused to look up. He stayed focused on his file, unfolding and placing his glasses on his face so that he could read, taking notes about what volumes of what transcripts he would need to pull for various people of various departments of the Ministry. 

Coderdale eventually sighed and busied himself re-shelving volumes. 

Draco looked up once Coderdale was away, taking his glasses off to chew on the right earpiece distractedly, his mind flashing through a memory involuntarily, forcing him to relive it for a moment.

_“You promised me! No! Let go! You promised me, you lying bastards!” he screamed, kicking, yelling, and trying to shake off the hold the guards had on him. His light frame was literally picked up by a guard leaning back while his arms wrapped around Draco from behind. Draco kicked out at the guards that were trying to wrangle his feet._

_“No! No!_ _NO…” he shouted, his voice quivering at the last as he fought back frightened and frustrated tears, his voice actually cracking from his screams as he struggled._

_“Come on…” the guard grunted, giving Draco a shake as he held on to him, the other having hold of Draco’s one leg, his other still kicking._

_“Get him out of here!” the Minister shouted, smacking his gavel over and over again, trying to speak over the commotion Draco was making and the people who were watching in shock._

_“No! You promised me! You can’t do this!” Draco shouted._

_“Get him out!” the Minister’s booming voice shouted over the heads of all those in the courtroom while Draco struggled still despite his small size._

_“You can’t do this! You bloody damned LIARS! You will get what’s coming to you, I swear! No! No! Let me go! Do not send me there, PLEASE!” he screamed, begging at the last as the guards now had him, one hugging Draco from behind to his chest with Draco’s arms pinned down, the other holding Draco’s ankles tight, carrying him suspended between them. A third guard had his wand drawn and pointed right at Draco’s chest, making it clear he would jinx him into submission if he struggled any further._

_Unable to move, wands upon him, no one listening to him, Draco hung his head and wept as he was carried out of the room, the people witnessing the trial abuzz with what they had just seen:_

_A guilty verdict…_

_Draco Malfoy trying to struggle away from the guards…_

_Draco Malfoy breaking down and crying…_

_Draco Malfoy…proclaiming vengeance?_

_To whom?_ _Harry Potter, undoubtedly, in the unified opinions of all those witness to the scene._

_“No! No! Please, they promised me!” he screamed again, not once saying who “they” were, his words echoing down the corridor before the heavy door could slam shut and block out his screams from the witches and wizards now talking furiously at the conclusion of a Death Eater’s trial, the first of many to follow over the next year._

Draco snapped out of his memories with his shouts and screams echoing in his head. He took a shuddering breath and let it out firmly, calming himself. 

That was more than thirteen years ago, yet that night… _that_ night was still so plain in everyone’s memories, his being no exception.

The only difference was he was one of the select few that knew the truth behind the meaning of his words. Those that mattered knew, but none that _knew_ thought it _mattered_ enough to set things right, apparently.

“No good deed goes unpunished,” he muttered to himself bitterly like he had so many times before. He had used his Legilimency to remind Harry of that the night before. It was a magical _and_ mental ability, but no wand was required when simply pressing a thought into another’s wide-open mind.

Draco worked in the Hall of History, Documentation, and Records. His story was there, written out on the pages of many different volumes and transcripts, but it was always inaccurate. It was always _wrong_.

Draco Malfoy: Convicted Death Eater and Werewolf.

That was untrue.

The Death Eater part at least. 


End file.
